The Best Gift by Wendy Markham
Dickens promptly makes a beeline for the opposite side of the room.
“Hey, come back here. I thought you had to go out. Here, boy. Come on.”
The dog ignores the command, parking himself in the doorway to the dining room and whining again.
“Dickens! Here. Here, boy!”
Nothing.
With an exasperated shake of his head, Drew closes the door. “You think maybe we need to enroll him in obedience school?”
“Yeah, and I hate to say it but I’m thinking the crate isn’t a bad idea after all, if we do go out later.”
“Good. I’m guessing there’s something playing down at Regal that we want to see.”
“Mikey’s new movie opens today.”
Mikey as in Michael Marshall, Clara’s old friend and onetime costar, who also happens to be Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob. He’s one of the few people from her acting days with whom she still keeps in touch.
Another is Jesus DeJesus, who, come to think of it, has called twice this week and left messages. She has yet to find time to call him back.
But I will, she promises herself with a twinge of guilt. And I’ll have to be sure not to slip about being pregnant.
There was a time when she confided in Jesus—and Mikey, too—about everything.
Well, almost everything. She never told them about her time travel experience.
When Drew first came along and became her main confidant, Jesus was worried their friendship would suffer. She promised him it wouldn’t—even after she moved to the West Coast, leaving him behind in New York.
But when was the last time you talked to him?
Okay, it’s been a while, but she’s been busy lately, preoccupied with the pregnancy and the move and Christmas. She’ll definitely give Jesus a call back before the day is over.
Drew goes back to cracking eggs into a bowl. “Let’s go see Michael’s movie, then. It’s the gladiator one, right?”
“Yes, and I’m sure it’ll be jammed. We should go early. I’ll check the movie times.”
“Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world.”
She quirks an eyebrow at him.
“What?”
“You always say that. ‘We have all the time in the world.’”
“So? We do. Especially today. We can just relax, play it by ear.”
“You know I hate to play things by ear.”
“Oh, that’s right. Ms. Hurry-Scurry-Flurry likes a solid plan.”
“You know it. Hand me my purse, will you, please?” She gestures at it, hanging on a hook beside the door. “I’ve got the movie phone number programmed into my cell phone.”
“And your cell phone is in your purse?” he asks, handing it over.
“Yup.”
“Sure about that?”
She peeks inside. “Nope.”
Drew nods smugly. “Didn’t think so. You know what I should have gotten you for Christmas? One of those voice-activated locator things for your phone so you wouldn’t keep losing it.”
“I’ve never lost it,” she points out. “I’ve just . . . misplaced it a few times. And anyway, I don’t need a locator on it. All I have to do is call it and listen for the ring.”
“That would work really well . . . if you ever remembered to charge the battery.”
“Good point.” Clara sighs and stands.
“I didn’t mean you should do it now.”
“I’m just going to go grab the newspaper. The movie schedule is in there, and God only knows where my cell phone is.”
“No, you sit here and rest, and I’ll go get the paper.”
“Um, it’s sitting out on the doorstep,” she points out dryly. “It’s not like I have to hike all the way down the hillside into town.”
“I know, sweetie, but I want you to take it easy.”
“I know, sweetie, but I want to get away from watching you crack all those disgusting eggs.”
“Fine. Just . . . be careful.”
“Be careful? Walking to the front door?”
“You’ve got precious cargo in there.” He gives her stomach a gentle pat as she passes.
Dickens, still crouched in the doorway, barks at her.
“What is it, boy? You look out of sorts.”
“You don’t know him well enough to say that,” Drew points out. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s got serious issues.”
“It’s okay, I love you even if you are nuttier than a fruitcake.”
Drew frowns.
“Hey, I meant the dog, not you,” Clara says.
“No, I just . . . that just reminded me of something.”
“What did?”
“Fruitcake.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what.”
Fruitcake.
It reminds Clara of something, too. Of someone.
Old Minnie Bouvier, Jed Landry’s Glenhaven Park neighbor, went out one snowy night December in 1941 to buy ground cloves for her annual batch of holiday fruitcakes, and never came home again.
Clara was there when Minnie was fatally struck by Arnold Wilkens’s Packard as he rushed his laboring wife Maisie to the hospital. Minnie Bouvier died there right around the time Maisie gave birth to her baby boy, Denton. The same Denton Wilkens who would later direct Clara in The Glenhaven Park Dozen.
She’s long since realized that there are no coincidences in her life.
Drew looks lost in thought.
“I wonder what fruitcake reminds you of,” she says slowly, watching him carefully as he looks up, startled.
“What?”
“Fruitcake,” she repeats, wondering if there’s any chance . . .
Drew shrugs and turns away from her, back to the stove. “It reminds me that it’s Christmas, and you’re hungry, and I’m making breakfast for you.”
Clara nods. Of course there’s no chance he could possibly remember Minnie Bouvier. Or Arnold, or Maisie, or any of the others.
Those memories belong to another person, another lifetime.
Then again . . .
Sometimes, a person can have a flash of inexplicable memory that might really be a glimpse into their own past . . . as somebody else.
She read that once in a book about reincarnation, a topic that had interested her long before Jed—and Drew—came along.
She always liked to hope that her grandfather, who had lost his wife, her grandmother, at a young age to breast cancer, would get a second chance with his soul mate. That the two of them might be reborn as babies who would grow up, find each other, and fall in love all over again.
Now she definitely believes it—and not just for her grandparents.
Humming “Deck the Halls” in unison with Drew’s resumed whistling, she steps around Dickens, who barks at her.
“What is it? You want to come with me so you can eat the newspaper?”
Another bark.
“Oh, you want to go to the movies, too?”
He barks again and she pats his head.
“I know, but you can’t. You’re not that into gladiators, anyway, are you?”
Another bark.
“Maybe you are. Sorry, I can’t help you there. You’ll be spending your afternoon in a very nice crate, though.”
He continues to bark as Clara makes her way to the front door. She reaches the hall just as the subway rumbles by, shaking the whole apartment.
Wait a minute . . .
This isn’t her apartment. It’s a house.
She’s not in New York City anymore. She’s in northern California.
There’s no subway here.
The only thing that would make the ground rumble and shake in northern California is . . .
“Earthquake!” Drew interrupts his whistling to announce from the kitchen.
“I know. I feel it.” She reaches for the wall to brace herself as the room rattles and rolls around her, and Dickens barks wildly.
She’s been through a couple of temblors since the move—tiny ones, Drew assured her, and they were brief.
Still, she was unnerved.
“Drew?” she calls, hearing glass breaking in the kitchen as a couple of books slide off a table a few feet from where she stands.
That’s never happened before.
“Get into a doorway! I’m coming! Dickens, get over here, you crazy dog!”
More breaking glass, and she hears him curse.
“Hey, watch the language!” she reminds him as she moves toward the nearest doorway, holding the wall, reminding herself that this is no big deal in northern California. She’ll get used to it.
The light fixture above her head flickers and sways.
“Holy crap!” Drew’s voice—always so reassuring—is hoarse.
He’s scared. Oh, God. Drew, the native Californian, her big, strong husband who just minutes ago promised her that everything would be fine, is scared.
Now the whole world is violently shaking. Windows rattle, cabinet doors swing open, dishes fall and shatter. Pottery and lamps topple from shelves and tabletops, breaking on the hardwoods and tile. With a tinkling of lights and ornaments and a heavy thump, the Christmas tree goes over in the living room.
“Clara! The doorway!” Drew hollers from the next room, sounding frantic.
“I know!”
She’s almost there, but it’s like walking on a trampoline. Terrified, she moves along the wall, calling for Drew, and then . . .
Chapter Four
Clara opens her eyes.
Morning.
Dim gray light falls through the big glass window beside the bed.
Christmas Day, she remembers.
“Hey, Drew,” she turns her head toward him, “I just had the scariest dream. There was an earthquake, and—Drew?”
His side of the sprawling California king bed is empty.
Not just empty.
Made.
The decorative pillow, in its sham, is still in place, and the covers are pulled all the way up.
That’s odd.
Why would he make half the bed with her in it?
“Drew?”
Clara sits up quickly.
Too quickly.
“Whoa,” she mutters, swept by dizziness and a tide of nausea.
Her stomach . . .
Morning sickness.
Right. She’s pregnant.
Funny how she manages to forget sometimes.
But every time she does, and then remembers, it’s like a happy little surprise party in her head . . .
Surprise! You’re pregnant!
Yay!
She reaches down to pat her stomach.
Surprise . . .
You’re showing!
Wow!
She read that her belly might seem to “pop” overnight, but she hadn’t realized it would be this pronounced. Running her fingertips over the firm, rounded ball beneath her ribs, she’s shocked at how big she is. She can’t wait to show—
Wait a minute. Drew doesn’t know yet, remember?
You just dreamed that you told him . . .
And that he gave you a puppy . . .
And then you dreamed the earthquake.
Yes, and thank God that part was just a dream. A nightmare, really.
Anyway, Drew wasn’t supposed to find out about the baby until later this morning when she gives him the Christmas present containing the rattle. But unless she can cover up with her robe, he’s going to take one look at her and figure it out.
Sitting up, she feels another wave of nausea. Oh, ick.
I can’t wait till the first trimester is over.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she notices that the electric candle on the windowsill beside the bed is missing.
That’s odd.
She looks at the other windows.
Where are all her candles?
It doesn’t make sense. They were here when she fell asleep, the bedroom bathed in their soft white glow.
“Drew?” she calls. “Did you move the candles?”
No reply.
She glances at the clock on the nightstand to see what time it is—just past seven—and notices a box of saltines resting beside it.
What is that doing here?
The ground is reassuringly steady beneath her feet as she stands, and her lower back aches.
Again, she looks at the box of saltines.
Okay, this really makes no sense. . . .
Unless she sleepwalked her way down to the kitchen to get it in the middle of the night.
She’s never done anything like that before, but according to What to Expect, pregnancy can cause all kinds of strange symptoms. She’ll have to check and see if sleepwalking is one of them.
Her robe is hanging on the bedpost. She reaches for it, hoping it will cover her belly.
Wait a minute . . .
This isn’t her robe.
Her robe is white terry cloth.
This one is red velour.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a sense of uneasiness takes hold.
Am I losing my mind?
No. You’re just pregnant.
Pregnancy causes forgetfulness. The book said so.
Okay, so she must have bought a new robe, or maybe she got one as a gift at Drew’s family’s open house last night, and she forgot.
Unsettled, she pulls it on and glances down at her stomach.
What the . . . ?
She’s huge.
She looks like she’s seven or eight months pregnant, at least.
Not two.
Maybe I should call the doctor, she decides as she starts to turn toward the door.
She stops short, nearly running into a chair.
What is that doing there?
The furniture is rearranged.
Not only that, but the bedroom is filled with stacked cardboard cartons.
It wasn’t like this last night. What in the world is going on?
“Oh my God . . . Drew! Drew!”
Frightened, she hurries into the hall and down the stairs, clinging to the banister. Her center of gravity seems to be off.
“Drew?”
At the foot of the stairs, she’s greeted by a shocking sight:
More boxes.
But . . . they finished unpacking everything before Thanksgiving.
Christmas presents, she tells herself. They must be Christmas presents from Drew.
Only they’re not wrapped, and the boxes aren’t gift boxes, they’re cardboard cartons. Moving cartons. And there are no Christmas decorations, and there is no Christmas tree, and no sign of her husband.
I’m losing my mind.
“Drew!”
The house is silent.
Dark.
Empty.
She can feel it.
Still, she searches, calling his name, crying.
“Where are you? Drew! Drew!”
Boxes fill every room. Nothing but boxes; no books on the shelves, no snow globe on the mantel, no pots and pans and dishes in the cupboards.
There’s furniture, but it’s all moved around, and there are a few pieces she’s never seen before.
And her candles . . . her electric candles . . .
They’re gone, with the tree and the other decorations.
Dear God, what is going on?
Maybe the earthquake wasn’t the nightmare.
Maybe this is.
Wake up, Clara.
You have to wake up now.
“Drew!” she shrieks, propelling her bulky frame toward the front door.
She throws it open.
Damp fog swirls before her.
“Drew!” She doesn’t care what time it is, doesn’t care who hears her.
She needs her husband.
Glancing wildly around, she sees that there’s only one car in the driveway: her own.
Drew is obviously not here.
“Drew!” she calls, anyway. “Drew!”
Something catches her eye. She looks down to see the morning paper lying on the mat.
The h
eadline reads: ceremonies to mark third anniversary of catastrophic quake.
Slowly, Clara picks up the newspaper, then hears a rustling in the shrubbery.
“Drew?” Poised, listening, she waits for a human response.
Nothing.
“Drew?”
This time, something . . . but it isn’t human.
In a blur of fur, a black bear cub launches from the shrubbery, heading straight for her. Before she can react, the creature has snatched the newspaper from her hand, blown past her and into the house. Horrified, Clara turns to see it skid to a stop in the front hall.
It drops the paper on the floor. Then it barks, and shakes off the damp with a jangling collar, and she realizes that it isn’t a bear cub after all.
It’s a black dog.
A Lab, just like the one Drew gave her in her dream . . . only this is no puppy. It’s fully grown, and it’s wagging its tail at her, and it’s in her house and looking for all the world as though it belongs here.
Shaken, she turns away from the dog, wondering if perhaps its owner is about to emerge from the fog, too.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Clara shrugs.
What now?
After a moment, she walks over and reaches gingerly for the paper. The dog bats at her hand with a fat paw, but more playfully than maliciously. Still, she drops the paper.
He noses at it, then tears into one of the sections—sports, she realizes, spotting a 49ers headline hanging from his jaw.
Dogs like paper, she recalls. At least, the puppy she dreamed about liked paper. This, though, is no puppy. This is a full-grown dog whose strong teeth are shredding the sports section.
Cautiously, she retrieves the rest of the paper, and glances again at the front page headline.
ceremonies to mark third anniversary of catastrophic quake
Must have been the one in Thailand that caused that deadly tsunami—that happened a few years back, around Christmas, didn’t it?
She scans the lead paragraph.
Across the region this holiday weekend, residents will commemorate the deadliest earthquake ever to hit the Bay area.
The Bay area?
The quake, which measured 8.3 on the Richter scale and caused massive—
Dazed, her heart racing, she forces herself to look away from the article, up at the dateline.
December 25, 2012.
“Oh, no . . . oh, God, not again.”
Pressing a fist to her trembling mouth, swaying as though she’s about to faint, Clara realizes she didn’t dream it—it really happened.
“Hey, come back here. I thought you had to go out. Here, boy. Come on.”
The dog ignores the command, parking himself in the doorway to the dining room and whining again.
“Dickens! Here. Here, boy!”
Nothing.
With an exasperated shake of his head, Drew closes the door. “You think maybe we need to enroll him in obedience school?”
“Yeah, and I hate to say it but I’m thinking the crate isn’t a bad idea after all, if we do go out later.”
“Good. I’m guessing there’s something playing down at Regal that we want to see.”
“Mikey’s new movie opens today.”
Mikey as in Michael Marshall, Clara’s old friend and onetime costar, who also happens to be Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob. He’s one of the few people from her acting days with whom she still keeps in touch.
Another is Jesus DeJesus, who, come to think of it, has called twice this week and left messages. She has yet to find time to call him back.
But I will, she promises herself with a twinge of guilt. And I’ll have to be sure not to slip about being pregnant.
There was a time when she confided in Jesus—and Mikey, too—about everything.
Well, almost everything. She never told them about her time travel experience.
When Drew first came along and became her main confidant, Jesus was worried their friendship would suffer. She promised him it wouldn’t—even after she moved to the West Coast, leaving him behind in New York.
But when was the last time you talked to him?
Okay, it’s been a while, but she’s been busy lately, preoccupied with the pregnancy and the move and Christmas. She’ll definitely give Jesus a call back before the day is over.
Drew goes back to cracking eggs into a bowl. “Let’s go see Michael’s movie, then. It’s the gladiator one, right?”
“Yes, and I’m sure it’ll be jammed. We should go early. I’ll check the movie times.”
“Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world.”
She quirks an eyebrow at him.
“What?”
“You always say that. ‘We have all the time in the world.’”
“So? We do. Especially today. We can just relax, play it by ear.”
“You know I hate to play things by ear.”
“Oh, that’s right. Ms. Hurry-Scurry-Flurry likes a solid plan.”
“You know it. Hand me my purse, will you, please?” She gestures at it, hanging on a hook beside the door. “I’ve got the movie phone number programmed into my cell phone.”
“And your cell phone is in your purse?” he asks, handing it over.
“Yup.”
“Sure about that?”
She peeks inside. “Nope.”
Drew nods smugly. “Didn’t think so. You know what I should have gotten you for Christmas? One of those voice-activated locator things for your phone so you wouldn’t keep losing it.”
“I’ve never lost it,” she points out. “I’ve just . . . misplaced it a few times. And anyway, I don’t need a locator on it. All I have to do is call it and listen for the ring.”
“That would work really well . . . if you ever remembered to charge the battery.”
“Good point.” Clara sighs and stands.
“I didn’t mean you should do it now.”
“I’m just going to go grab the newspaper. The movie schedule is in there, and God only knows where my cell phone is.”
“No, you sit here and rest, and I’ll go get the paper.”
“Um, it’s sitting out on the doorstep,” she points out dryly. “It’s not like I have to hike all the way down the hillside into town.”
“I know, sweetie, but I want you to take it easy.”
“I know, sweetie, but I want to get away from watching you crack all those disgusting eggs.”
“Fine. Just . . . be careful.”
“Be careful? Walking to the front door?”
“You’ve got precious cargo in there.” He gives her stomach a gentle pat as she passes.
Dickens, still crouched in the doorway, barks at her.
“What is it, boy? You look out of sorts.”
“You don’t know him well enough to say that,” Drew points out. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s got serious issues.”
“It’s okay, I love you even if you are nuttier than a fruitcake.”
Drew frowns.
“Hey, I meant the dog, not you,” Clara says.
“No, I just . . . that just reminded me of something.”
“What did?”
“Fruitcake.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what.”
Fruitcake.
It reminds Clara of something, too. Of someone.
Old Minnie Bouvier, Jed Landry’s Glenhaven Park neighbor, went out one snowy night December in 1941 to buy ground cloves for her annual batch of holiday fruitcakes, and never came home again.
Clara was there when Minnie was fatally struck by Arnold Wilkens’s Packard as he rushed his laboring wife Maisie to the hospital. Minnie Bouvier died there right around the time Maisie gave birth to her baby boy, Denton. The same Denton Wilkens who would later direct Clara in The Glenhaven Park Dozen.
She’s long since realized that there are no coincidences in her life.
Drew looks lost in thought.
“I wonder what fruitcake reminds you of,” she says slowly, watching him carefully as he looks up, startled.
“What?”
“Fruitcake,” she repeats, wondering if there’s any chance . . .
Drew shrugs and turns away from her, back to the stove. “It reminds me that it’s Christmas, and you’re hungry, and I’m making breakfast for you.”
Clara nods. Of course there’s no chance he could possibly remember Minnie Bouvier. Or Arnold, or Maisie, or any of the others.
Those memories belong to another person, another lifetime.
Then again . . .
Sometimes, a person can have a flash of inexplicable memory that might really be a glimpse into their own past . . . as somebody else.
She read that once in a book about reincarnation, a topic that had interested her long before Jed—and Drew—came along.
She always liked to hope that her grandfather, who had lost his wife, her grandmother, at a young age to breast cancer, would get a second chance with his soul mate. That the two of them might be reborn as babies who would grow up, find each other, and fall in love all over again.
Now she definitely believes it—and not just for her grandparents.
Humming “Deck the Halls” in unison with Drew’s resumed whistling, she steps around Dickens, who barks at her.
“What is it? You want to come with me so you can eat the newspaper?”
Another bark.
“Oh, you want to go to the movies, too?”
He barks again and she pats his head.
“I know, but you can’t. You’re not that into gladiators, anyway, are you?”
Another bark.
“Maybe you are. Sorry, I can’t help you there. You’ll be spending your afternoon in a very nice crate, though.”
He continues to bark as Clara makes her way to the front door. She reaches the hall just as the subway rumbles by, shaking the whole apartment.
Wait a minute . . .
This isn’t her apartment. It’s a house.
She’s not in New York City anymore. She’s in northern California.
There’s no subway here.
The only thing that would make the ground rumble and shake in northern California is . . .
“Earthquake!” Drew interrupts his whistling to announce from the kitchen.
“I know. I feel it.” She reaches for the wall to brace herself as the room rattles and rolls around her, and Dickens barks wildly.
She’s been through a couple of temblors since the move—tiny ones, Drew assured her, and they were brief.
“Drew?” she calls, hearing glass breaking in the kitchen as a couple of books slide off a table a few feet from where she stands.
That’s never happened before.
“Get into a doorway! I’m coming! Dickens, get over here, you crazy dog!”
More breaking glass, and she hears him curse.
“Hey, watch the language!” she reminds him as she moves toward the nearest doorway, holding the wall, reminding herself that this is no big deal in northern California. She’ll get used to it.
The light fixture above her head flickers and sways.
“Holy crap!” Drew’s voice—always so reassuring—is hoarse.
He’s scared. Oh, God. Drew, the native Californian, her big, strong husband who just minutes ago promised her that everything would be fine, is scared.
Now the whole world is violently shaking. Windows rattle, cabinet doors swing open, dishes fall and shatter. Pottery and lamps topple from shelves and tabletops, breaking on the hardwoods and tile. With a tinkling of lights and ornaments and a heavy thump, the Christmas tree goes over in the living room.
“Clara! The doorway!” Drew hollers from the next room, sounding frantic.
“I know!”
She’s almost there, but it’s like walking on a trampoline. Terrified, she moves along the wall, calling for Drew, and then . . .
Chapter Four
Clara opens her eyes.
Morning.
Dim gray light falls through the big glass window beside the bed.
Christmas Day, she remembers.
“Hey, Drew,” she turns her head toward him, “I just had the scariest dream. There was an earthquake, and—Drew?”
His side of the sprawling California king bed is empty.
Not just empty.
Made.
The decorative pillow, in its sham, is still in place, and the covers are pulled all the way up.
That’s odd.
Why would he make half the bed with her in it?
“Drew?”
Clara sits up quickly.
Too quickly.
“Whoa,” she mutters, swept by dizziness and a tide of nausea.
Her stomach . . .
Morning sickness.
Right. She’s pregnant.
Funny how she manages to forget sometimes.
But every time she does, and then remembers, it’s like a happy little surprise party in her head . . .
Surprise! You’re pregnant!
Yay!
She reaches down to pat her stomach.
Surprise . . .
You’re showing!
Wow!
She read that her belly might seem to “pop” overnight, but she hadn’t realized it would be this pronounced. Running her fingertips over the firm, rounded ball beneath her ribs, she’s shocked at how big she is. She can’t wait to show—
Wait a minute. Drew doesn’t know yet, remember?
You just dreamed that you told him . . .
And that he gave you a puppy . . .
And then you dreamed the earthquake.
Yes, and thank God that part was just a dream. A nightmare, really.
Anyway, Drew wasn’t supposed to find out about the baby until later this morning when she gives him the Christmas present containing the rattle. But unless she can cover up with her robe, he’s going to take one look at her and figure it out.
Sitting up, she feels another wave of nausea. Oh, ick.
I can’t wait till the first trimester is over.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she notices that the electric candle on the windowsill beside the bed is missing.
That’s odd.
She looks at the other windows.
Where are all her candles?
It doesn’t make sense. They were here when she fell asleep, the bedroom bathed in their soft white glow.
“Drew?” she calls. “Did you move the candles?”
No reply.
She glances at the clock on the nightstand to see what time it is—just past seven—and notices a box of saltines resting beside it.
What is that doing here?
The ground is reassuringly steady beneath her feet as she stands, and her lower back aches.
Again, she looks at the box of saltines.
Okay, this really makes no sense. . . .
Unless she sleepwalked her way down to the kitchen to get it in the middle of the night.
She’s never done anything like that before, but according to What to Expect, pregnancy can cause all kinds of strange symptoms. She’ll have to check and see if sleepwalking is one of them.
Her robe is hanging on the bedpost. She reaches for it, hoping it will cover her belly.
Wait a minute . . .
This isn’t her robe.
Her robe is white terry cloth.
This one is red velour.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a sense of uneasiness takes hold.
Am I losing my mind?
No. You’re just pregnant.
Pregnancy causes forgetfulness. The book said so.
Okay, so she must have bought a new robe, or maybe she got one as a gift at Drew’s family’s open house last night, and she forgot.
Unsettled, she pulls it on and glances down at her stomach.
What the . . . ?
She’s huge.
She looks like she’s seven or eight months pregnant, at least.
Not two.
Maybe I should call the doctor, she decides as she starts to turn toward the door.
She stops short, nearly running into a chair.
What is that doing there?
The furniture is rearranged.
Not only that, but the bedroom is filled with stacked cardboard cartons.
It wasn’t like this last night. What in the world is going on?
“Oh my God . . . Drew! Drew!”
Frightened, she hurries into the hall and down the stairs, clinging to the banister. Her center of gravity seems to be off.
“Drew?”
At the foot of the stairs, she’s greeted by a shocking sight:
More boxes.
But . . . they finished unpacking everything before Thanksgiving.
Christmas presents, she tells herself. They must be Christmas presents from Drew.
Only they’re not wrapped, and the boxes aren’t gift boxes, they’re cardboard cartons. Moving cartons. And there are no Christmas decorations, and there is no Christmas tree, and no sign of her husband.
I’m losing my mind.
“Drew!”
The house is silent.
Dark.
Empty.
She can feel it.
Still, she searches, calling his name, crying.
“Where are you? Drew! Drew!”
Boxes fill every room. Nothing but boxes; no books on the shelves, no snow globe on the mantel, no pots and pans and dishes in the cupboards.
There’s furniture, but it’s all moved around, and there are a few pieces she’s never seen before.
And her candles . . . her electric candles . . .
They’re gone, with the tree and the other decorations.
Dear God, what is going on?
Maybe the earthquake wasn’t the nightmare.
Maybe this is.
Wake up, Clara.
You have to wake up now.
“Drew!” she shrieks, propelling her bulky frame toward the front door.
She throws it open.
Damp fog swirls before her.
“Drew!” She doesn’t care what time it is, doesn’t care who hears her.
She needs her husband.
Glancing wildly around, she sees that there’s only one car in the driveway: her own.
Drew is obviously not here.
“Drew!” she calls, anyway. “Drew!”
Something catches her eye. She looks down to see the morning paper lying on the mat.
The h
Slowly, Clara picks up the newspaper, then hears a rustling in the shrubbery.
“Drew?” Poised, listening, she waits for a human response.
Nothing.
“Drew?”
This time, something . . . but it isn’t human.
In a blur of fur, a black bear cub launches from the shrubbery, heading straight for her. Before she can react, the creature has snatched the newspaper from her hand, blown past her and into the house. Horrified, Clara turns to see it skid to a stop in the front hall.
It drops the paper on the floor. Then it barks, and shakes off the damp with a jangling collar, and she realizes that it isn’t a bear cub after all.
It’s a black dog.
A Lab, just like the one Drew gave her in her dream . . . only this is no puppy. It’s fully grown, and it’s wagging its tail at her, and it’s in her house and looking for all the world as though it belongs here.
Shaken, she turns away from the dog, wondering if perhaps its owner is about to emerge from the fog, too.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Clara shrugs.
What now?
After a moment, she walks over and reaches gingerly for the paper. The dog bats at her hand with a fat paw, but more playfully than maliciously. Still, she drops the paper.
He noses at it, then tears into one of the sections—sports, she realizes, spotting a 49ers headline hanging from his jaw.
Dogs like paper, she recalls. At least, the puppy she dreamed about liked paper. This, though, is no puppy. This is a full-grown dog whose strong teeth are shredding the sports section.
Cautiously, she retrieves the rest of the paper, and glances again at the front page headline.
ceremonies to mark third anniversary of catastrophic quake
Must have been the one in Thailand that caused that deadly tsunami—that happened a few years back, around Christmas, didn’t it?
She scans the lead paragraph.
Across the region this holiday weekend, residents will commemorate the deadliest earthquake ever to hit the Bay area.
The Bay area?
The quake, which measured 8.3 on the Richter scale and caused massive—
Dazed, her heart racing, she forces herself to look away from the article, up at the dateline.
December 25, 2012.
“Oh, no . . . oh, God, not again.”
Pressing a fist to her trembling mouth, swaying as though she’s about to faint, Clara realizes she didn’t dream it—it really happened.